Spaghetti Squash Lasagna Boats

March. The light returning to Seattle, the days lengthening, the promise of spring underneath the lingering gray. Two years since I started cooking. Two years since the scrambled eggs and the takeout menus and the silence. The anniversary is in three weeks, and this year I'm not planning a celebration — the cooking doesn't need a celebration anymore. It doesn't need marking or commemorating or reflecting upon. It's just my life. The kimchi in the fridge is not a project. It's Tuesday. The doenjang jjigae on the stove is not a statement. It's dinner. The transition from extraordinary to ordinary is complete, and the ordinary is the victory.

This week I did something I've been avoiding: I called the Korean Adoption Services (KAS) office. Not to submit a search request — just to ask questions. The woman on the phone was kind, Korean-American, spoke to me in English with occasional Korean phrases. She explained the process: I would submit my adoption records, any identifying information I have, and a DNA sample. KAS would cross-reference with their database of birth parents who have registered for reunion. If there's a match, both parties are contacted. If there's no match, my information stays in the database for future matching. The process is confidential. The process is optional. The process is reversible — I can remove my information at any time.

I didn't submit anything. I just called. I asked questions. I took notes. I hung up and sat at my kitchen counter and ate kimchi from the jar — the emotional regulation mechanism, the fermented therapy — and thought about what it would mean to submit. To put my name, my DNA, my records into a database and say: I'm looking. I'm here. If you're looking too, here I am. The vulnerability of that. The exposure. The opening of a door that, once opened, cannot be un-opened. You can take your name out of the database but you can't un-know what you learn. If she's there — if Jisoo (the name I gave her, the placeholder name, the name I'll replace with her real name if I ever learn it) — if she's registered, if she's looking, if she wants to be found — then the finding will happen, and everything will change, and the change will be permanent.

Dr. Yoon said, "You called." I said, "I called." She said, "That's not base camp anymore. That's the first step of the ascent." I said, "I'm terrified." She said, "Good. Terrified and ascending is exactly where you should be."

Cooking: I made manduguk — dumpling soup. Homemade mandu (my crimping is excellent now, thanks Misook) in a clear beef broth with rice cakes and egg. It's a comforting, nourishing soup, the kind you eat when you need to feel held. I ate it at my counter, standing, the way I eat when I'm processing something big, and the soup held me the way soup does — from the inside, warmly, without demanding anything in return.

Saturday: Bellevue. I told Karen I called KAS. She set down her fork and looked at me with the focused attention of a woman who has been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. "What did they say?" she asked. I told her the process. She listened. When I finished, she said, "Are you going to submit?" I said, "I think so. Not yet. But soon." She nodded. "When you're ready," she said. "I'll be here." I'll be here. The anchor. The constant. The woman who raised me and will be here whether I find my birth mother or don't, whether the reunion is beautiful or devastating, whether everything changes or nothing does. I'll be here. Karen will be here. She's always been here.

The manduguk held me through the sharpest part of the week—the phone call, the notes, the sitting at the counter eating kimchi from the jar. But the week was long, and I kept cooking the way I do now when I need to be in my body without being in my head. The Sunday after I called Karen, I made these spaghetti squash lasagna boats: halving and roasting and layering and filling, building something warm and sturdy from the outside in, and thinking about her “I’ll be here” the entire time. Comfort food doesn’t have to be Korean to hold you. Sometimes it just has to be warm, and made by your own hands, and yours.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 1 hr | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

2 medium spaghetti squash, halved lengthwise and seeded
2 tbsp olive oil, divided
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1 lb ground beef or mild Italian sausage
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp Italian seasoning
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
1 jar (24 oz) marinara sauce
1 cup whole-milk ricotta cheese
1 large egg
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided
2 cups shredded low-moisture mozzarella, divided
Fresh basil leaves, for garnish

Instructions

Roast the squash. Preheat oven to 400°F. Brush the cut sides of the squash halves with 1 tbsp olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place cut-side down on a rimmed baking sheet and roast for 35–40 minutes, until the flesh is tender and easily pierced with a fork. Remove from oven and let cool slightly. Reduce oven temperature to 375°F.
Brown the meat. While the squash roasts, heat remaining 1 tbsp olive oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the ground beef or sausage and cook, breaking it up, until no pink remains, about 6–8 minutes. Add garlic, Italian seasoning, and red pepper flakes; cook 1 minute more. Drain excess fat.
Build the meat sauce. Add marinara to the skillet with the browned meat. Stir to combine and simmer over medium-low heat for 5 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Remove from heat.
Make the ricotta layer. In a small bowl, stir together the ricotta, egg, 1/4 cup Parmesan, and 1/2 cup mozzarella until combined. Season lightly with salt and pepper.
Scrape and fill the boats. Flip the cooled squash halves cut-side up. Use a fork to gently scrape and loosen the strands from the flesh, keeping them inside the shell. Spoon the meat sauce evenly over the strands in each half, pressing it gently into the squash. Dollop the ricotta mixture over the top, spreading it loosely.
Top and bake. Sprinkle the remaining 1 1/2 cups mozzarella and remaining 1/4 cup Parmesan evenly over all four boats. Transfer the filled squash boats to the baking sheet and bake at 375°F for 20–25 minutes, until the cheese is melted, golden in spots, and bubbling at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the boats rest for 5 minutes before serving. Scatter fresh basil leaves over the top. Serve directly in the squash shell—one half per person.

Nutrition (per serving)

Spaghetti Squash Lasagna Boats — Something Warm to Build While I Wait to Be Ready